


Frigophobia

by penlex



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), DCU
Genre: 5 Times, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Christmas, Comics Backstory, Family, First Kiss, Fluff, Friendship, Hanukkah, Holidays, Hypothermia, Jewish Character, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Phobias, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Season/Series 01, except it's 3 Times but same basic concept, tragic backstory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2017-12-13
Packaged: 2019-02-14 08:16:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13003605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penlex/pseuds/penlex
Summary: Or 3 Times Mick Thought He'd Freeze +1 Time He Was Warm and CozyCompanion Leonard piece:Thermophobia





	Frigophobia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Beware_The_Ravenstag](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beware_The_Ravenstag/gifts).



**1\. Severe**

He doesn't know how long he's been in here now, but it's been long enough for him to have given up trying to get out or get a grown up to notice him. The paths the heat of his fingers made in the covering of ice on the door when he had clawed at it have already begun to frost back over, and Mick's eyelashes crunch when he blinks from the tears that have frozen in them. His swim trunks crunch too, where he'd wet them. He hopes if he dies nobody will notice that.

It's a summer field trip they're on - the last week before school finally lets out - so Mick is dressed for the muggy midwestern May outside in a loose tank top over the swim trunks. The big red temperature gauge on the wall by the heavy door says it's 30°F.

Mick is pretty sure he can't feel any part of his body - except his lungs. Every breath stings all the way down and makes his chest tight. He wants to cry again, but he thinks his eyeballs are too cold to manage any more tears. He's shivering so hard his teeth clack together like in a cartoon, and accidentally scratches himself across both arms where he's trying to hug himself - for warmth or comfort or just to try not to touch any of the frigid walls.

In the way-too-near distance there are huge hunks of frozen meat hanging from the ceiling, and behind them Mick knows there are full carcasses hanging too even though he can't see them. He wonders if he should go back there. Maybe with all those other bodies it will be warmer. He's starting to get light headed, but he doesn't know if that's from all the scream and crying he'd done, or if maybe his air is getting used up, or if that's part of freezing to death.

Mick doesn't actually know anything at all about freezing to death.

Apparently he's gonna learn.

Mick passes out before his teacher finds him. He looks up what happened to him later, after he and the boy who locked him in there both get expelled (even though Mick didn't even do anything that time).

 

**2\. Moderate**

It's early January  and they're doing a night show in South Dakota, which is the stupidest shit Mick has ever heard of in his life. It's not like you can sustainably heat fucking tents. No matter how many fucking layers Mick piles on the cold still seeps through, and he's gonna have to take them all off to perform anyway.

And perform he does, lined up to go right before the lovebird acrobats who are the main attraction now that they're married and wholesome and shit. As Mick slides his coat off his shoulders just outside the flap in the Big Top where he'll enter, he wishes he could just hang out in the Freak Show tent all night. Waylon practically has a fucking hot tub in there, lucky bastard.

Mick's fire-eater costume is only a step off from what he figures a firefighter themed stripper would wear. Red faux suspenders attached to form fitting yellow pants, bulky black gloves it'd be safer without, and big black boots. The pants are fucking formica (flammable, by the way, assholes). It's fucking 18°F with four inches of snow and counting, and Mick is wearing fucking formica.

He's already shivering violently and trying not to start panicking, reminding himself over and over again that he's not trapped and his clothes are sitting there on the bench right next to him and he's about to go inside anyway and he's fine, when he finally hears his damn cue. He rushes into the Big Top and the temperature difference is such a relief Mick could cry about it, but only for about ten seconds.

After all it's not like they can really get it above 50° in here, and Mick is wearing fucking formica.

Fucking. Formica.

But Mick dances and winks and swallows and spits differently colored flames, and he doesn't set himself or anyone else on fire, even though he's fucking cold and they all stare at him like he'd taste good roasted anyway.

Mick's clothes are gone when he's done and pokes his head back out his entry flap. He's been here long enough to be well past getting hazed, but Mick wouldn't be surprised at all if he'd made himself an enemy somehow without realizing it. His teeth start clacking together just at the thought of trying to make it back to the residential tents dressed like this.

A nightmare situation flashes before Mick's eyes. He walks out, making that straight shot across the path to where the rest of his clothes and his sleeping bags and blankets are waiting for him, but on his way he gets too cold and confused and wanders off into the woods or the street and dies alone in his fucking formica in the snow. Probably no one would ever find him. He'd turn blue.

He yanks his head back inside, not that he really gets any warmer without any parts sticking out of the Big Top. He's not wearing any fucking clothes. This is so fucking stupid, why would they come to fucking Dakota in the winter and not have alternate costumes.

Mick tries to tell himself it's not that far. He probably wouldn't get cold enough to get disoriented like that. Fuck, he never should have looked up the symptoms of hypothermia after the fucking meat locker incident. He double checks that he's still shivering (of course he's still shivering, he's not fucking freezing to death - yet - fuck, he needs to get a grip…).

Mick stays there - frozen of a different sort - by the flap, unable to make the decision to move, neither outside and across to the residential tents nor further inside the Big Top where it's at least a little warmer. He doesn't know how long it is before the lady acrobat comes over after her bit and offers to walk back with him. She wraps him up in her partner's coat, and offers him some of the hot cider from her thermos.

Mick takes it, and he does not give it back.

 

**3\. Mild**

"So are we gonna land and fix it, or what?” Mick grumbles immediately when Gideon announces that the heating system has malfunctioned.  
  
“We have a mission that we are in the middle of seeing to, Mr. Rory,” Rip insists testily, and continues flying. “Not to worry,” he adds. “Time doesn’t get quite as cold as Space.”  
  
“Oh, good,” Mick growls, his hands holding tightly to the safety bars of his seat. “As long as it doesn’t get _quite_ as cold as Space, no big deal.” He knows there's no way it's actually gotten cold yet, but Mick starts to shiver anyway. Fucking soma-psychic whatever.

It does get cold, though. Fast.

They land eventually, Gideon bringing them to one month before their destination so that they can fix the malfunction and then still be far enough out to hit their target. Mick shoots off into his room to put on another layer the very second that the Waverider touches down.

They land on a mountain and open up all the planks to let the warmer natural air inside the ship. Of course warmer than 'not quite as cold as Space' is still not warm. Mick stands outside, orienting himself to be as much in the sun as possible, puts on his special Heatwave gloves, lights a POY ball and just fucking holds it.

"Is that… not dangerous?" Haircut asks hesitantly, wisely keeping his distance and just gesturing at the burning yarn.

"Very," says Mick, and doesn't move until the POY ball sputters out in his hand on its own.

The heating system is fixed in less than an hour and Rip corrales everyone back into their seats. Jax enthusiastically describes the bits he got to work on to an unduly interested Haircut, but Mick hardly notices their chatter.

"It's still cold," he snaps at no one in particular, itching to light up something else, shivering still.

"You're not going to tell him to 'chill'?" Sara asks Len, standing at Mick's shoulder, with a crooked grin. Mick reminds himself she doesn't mean literally. She means 'calm down' not 'freeze'.

"Why would I tell _Heatwave_ to chill?" Len quips back. He sounds almost like he's poking a little fun at Mick along with Sara, if not for his… well, his especially cool tone, and the sardonic twist of his lips in the look he shoots her as he slides past Mick and into his seat. "That wouldn't exactly be on brand, would it." Sara snorts.

"Oh, excuse me," she says. "I didn't realize 'cranky in the cold' was part of the hype."

"Fuck you," Mick snaps, even though he knows she didn't intend it to be mean. He throws himself down into his spot next to Len, and when he lands and the slight chill of the metal seat seeps through the butt of his pants he starts to shiver harder even though he knows, he _knows_ he's not that cold yet.

"It will take just a moment to warm up again, Mr. Rory," Rip scolds from where he's already occupied with the pilot's controls. "No need to be uncivil." The growl Mick gives him is unsteady from the damn shivers, but no one but Len seems to notice. Before the safety bars come down, he slides himself out of his parka and hands it over to Mick to hug around himself like a blanket.

"Oh for goodness sake," Stein mutters, but Mick just closes his eyes and burrows deeper into Len-scented down and tries to think warm thoughts.

They take off.

Gideon announces that the heating has malfunctioned again.

Mick whines involuntarily, like a trapped animal, and the rote complaints of the rest of the crew die as they all look over at him. He hisses through his teeth as they start to clack together.

"It doesn't seem that cold to me," Kendra says softly, almost a question. She is pretty much a goddess after all, maybe she just can't feel it. And Len is fucking Captain Cold for a reason - Mick has seen even below freezing temperatures only make him uncomfortable. And Blondie has that League training, mind over matter and all that. Jax and Stein are fucking radioactive. Maybe it really is that cold and just nobody else notices. Maybe it's not all in Mick's head.

Maybe he's really gonna freeze this time.

"He's got a Thing," Len explains, the capital letter apparent in his voice. "I suggest that you land again, _Captain_ , before I make you." Mick waits with dread, burrowing as deep as he can get into Len's parka, for the sound of the cold gun charging up before it shoots and brings the temperature down even further.

"I apologize for my misleading statement," Gideon says before anything else happens. It would be abrupt if she wasn't an android who always spoke with the same tone. "The heating system is malfunctioning now in that it is overperforming."

"So it's gonna get hot?" Mick asks hopefully, his voice coming out even rougher than usual from the fear and the slowly growing relief. He's already starting to feel stupid for freaking out. He _knew_ it wasn't that cold.

"That is correct," Gideon confirms, and _that_ is when the cold gun whirs.

"Like I said," Len orders tightly, aiming steadily at Rip's back. "Land before I make you."

"He's got a Thing," says Mick to the others, and then slips half helplessly into post-freakout sleep.

 

**+1. Perfect**

They're about four inches in to their forecasted six to eight. Mick is keeping his distance from the windows. There's no draft in their newest place, but the glass still bleeds cold and Len has insisted on keeping the curtains open so he can watch the snow fall. Mick had only put up a fight for the bickering's sake; there's a fire in the hearth and the egg nog is spiked and warm, so he's got nothing to truly complain about.

The den is a hodgepodge of Christmas and Hanukkah decorations - red and green and gold and white and blue and silver everywhere. There's a tree over in front of the windows. It's live, but tiny, barely even five foot, all three of them taller than it. Lisa had bought Mick a string of lights that look like candles and flicker, and she'd had him open them yesterday and wrap them around the tree. They don't really look like fire at all, but he loves them anyway. Lisa's gift from yesterday, from Len, is on the tree too - a set of two ribbons, one a silky gold and one with embroidered edges shaped like a string of diamonds. They curl around the tree underneath Mick's line of lights, their version of garland for the year.

(Len's gift from yesterday, from both Lisa and Mick, was the booze that is now in the nog.)

The presents are lined up against the wall, all in gold or silver wrapping, behind the menorah on the ex-sewing table. The table itself is draped with a dark blue runner with little silver tassels at the end points. Mick can't help but think every time he sees them dangling that it's lucky they don't have a cat.

There is an excessively ugly Santa gnome on the breakfast bar. Lisa is laughing at it again as she refills her mug with egg nog. She seems done, takes a sip, but then chokes on it when she looks again. It really is that ugly, and that is precisely why she had brought it home with her. Mick and Len are both hate it, but it's hard to maintain ill will about something that makes Lisa giggle like that without fail.

Lisa plops herself unceremoniously into Mick's lap once she gets a hold of herself. He _oof_ s even though she weighs next to nothing. That'll change soon enough, if Mick has anything to say about it. Now they have money, Mick's gonna serve up a nice big feast every single night of Hanukkah, and then one on the solstice, and then one on Christmas Eve and Christmas too. And Lisa's gonna have seconds at every one, or Mick's gonna kill that fucking gnome. So there.

"Ooh," says Lisa, wriggling herself further into Mick. "Cozy." Len snorts from where he's relighting the first candle of the menorah. The menorah they've got is mini, like their tree, and one of the few things Len managed to squirrel away after his mom passed. They're using blue birthday candles to light it.

"On Brand, right Mick," he jokes with a raised eyebrow.

"Yeah," Mick agrees, not really hearing what Len has said, staring at the corner of Len's mouth, quirked up in his typical smirk, and smeared with chocolate. The chocolate has been there for more than an hour, because Len had fallen asleep covered in little gold wrappers after finishing off an entire bag of gelt by himself and didn't notice it when he woke up. Neither Mick or Lisa has mentioned it to him, and Lisa keeps shooting Mick these knowing looks and he keeps ignoring her and wishing they had some mistletoe somewhere.

Len narrows his eyes at Mick, suspicious. Mick and Lisa both take large, perfectly innocent, gulps of their nog. Len glares at them, but lets it go for now. Instead he gestures delicately with his lit birthday candle.

"C'mere, you. Light the second one," he orders. Lisa whines, but she rolls out of Mick's lap and into standing anyway. But then she just stands there.

"Get up, jerk," she says to Mick. "Go light the candle while I steal your seat and your warmth, and probably your booze."

"You have your own," Mick complains, by rote, floundering a little even as he stands and moves out of Lisa's way so she can flop into the armchair the same way she'd flopped into his lap. He thought the lighting of the menorah was a family only kind of thing. But when Mick looks over at Len, Len just wiggles the birthday candle at him expectantly.

Mick sets down his egg nog (Lisa does indeed take it, two-fisting festive mugs like a weirdo) and steps up to the sewing table, taking the lit birthday candle from Len to use it to light the second birthday candle waiting in the menorah. Len doesn't move out of his way, so they're practically chest to chest as Mick touches the wicks together and then replaces the first candle in the empty spot. He's momentarily drawn in by the tiny flames, but when he drags himself to look away Len's eyes are just as captivating. They're still that sharp icy blue they always have been, but now they're warm too.

Mick forgets all about his need for mistletoe, and kisses Len without the excuse, forgetting to overthink it, licking that little smear of chocolate away by coincidence.

"I was wondering when you were going to get that for me," Len says smugly when Mick pulls back.

"You left it there on purpose?" Mick mumbles, staring at Len's lips now. They're clean, but a little pinker, and now he knows how warm they are…

"Well," Len reasons. "We don't have any mistletoe." Mick huffs softly, cupping his hands around Len's hips and pulling him in closer. He's so warm.

"Tricking me into kissing you first when you could have just asked or done it yourself?" he says. "Now _that_ is on brand."

"What is this 'on brand' shit?" Lisa asks, sounding put out not to be in the loop. Mick and Len both ignore her in favor of kissing again. "Ugh, gross." She must look away, probably pouting, because not a second later she's cracking up again, practically cackling, and Len pulls away from Mick to tell her to put a sock in it already.

Mick is gonna kill that fucking Santa gnome.

"Pass out the presents, Mick," Len says. In the time it took Mick to blink and briefly plot the gnome's murder, Len has somehow managed to claim the armchair and Mick's egg nog from Lisa. "I have all their tags marked with a number two."

"God, you are so anal retentive," Lisa mutters, and Len trips her without getting up. She stumbles, and then dramatically throws herself onto the ground. She doesn't spill a drop of nog.

The fire is going and the menorah is lit and Mick's fake ass candles flicker in the tree and Len's eyes are on him and he's smiling, and the cold from the snow outside bleeds into the room from the windows, but Mick is warm. Cozy.

(He's still gonna kill the gnome, though. Tomorrow.)

Mick drops the first day two present on Lisa's face where she hasn't gotten up from the ground.

"Brothers are the _worst_!" she shouts, and then starts ripping it open with her teeth like she's still twelve.

It snows all night, burying them in ten inches, and Mick sleeps underneath two blankets and Len, and doesn't shiver even once.

**Author's Note:**

> Companion Leonard piece here: [Thermophobia](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16768843)


End file.
